his case would come before this not very agreeable judge.
Moreover, the task of Jarriquez was in a way very simple. He had
either to inquire nor to rule; he had not even to regulate a
discussion nor to obtain a verdict, neither to apply the articles of
the penal code nor to pronounce a sentence. Unfortunately for the
fazender, such formalities were no longer necessary; Joam Dacosta had
been arrested, convicted, and sentenced twenty-three years ago for
the crime at Tijuco; no limitation had yet affected his sentence. No
demand in commutation of the penalty could be introduced, and no
appeal for mercy could be received. It was only necessary then to
establish his identity, and as soon as the order arrived from Rio
Janeiro justice would have to take its course.
But in the nature of things Joam Dacosta would protest his innocence;
he would say he had been unjustly condemned. The magistrate’s duty,
notwithstanding the opinions he held, would be to listen to him. The
question would be, what proofs could the convict offer to make good
his assertions? And if he was not able to produce them when he
appeared before his first judges, was he able to do so now?
Herein consisted all the interest of the examination. There would
have to be admitted the fact of a defaulter, prosperous and safe in a
foreign country, leaving his refuge of his won free will to face the
justice which his past life should have taught him to dread, and
herein would be on of those rare and curious cases which ought to
interest even a magistrate hardened with all the surroundings of
forensic strife. Was it impudent folly on the part of the doomed man
of Tijuco, who was tired of his life, or was it the impulse of a
conscience which would at all risks have wrong set right? The problem
was a strange one, it must be acknowledged.
On the morrow of Joam Dacosta’s arrest, Judge Jarriquez made his way
to the prison in God-the-Son Street, where the convict had been
placed. The prison was an old missionary convent, situated on the
bank of one of the principal iguarapes of the town. To the voluntary
prisoners of former times there had succeeded in this building, which
was but little adapted for the purpose, the compulsory prisoners of
to-day. The room occupied by Joam Dacosta was nothing like one of
those sad little cells which form part of our modern penitentiary
system: but an old monk’s room, with a barred window without
shutters, opening on to an uncultivated space, a bench in one corner,
and a kind of pallet in the other. It was from this apartment that
Joam Dacosta, on this 25th of August, about eleven o’clock in the
morning, was taken and brought into the judge’s room, which was the
old common hall of the convent.
Judge Jarriquez was there in front of his desk, perched on his high
chair, his back turned toward the window, so that his face was in
shadow while that of the accused remained in full daylight. His
clerk, with the indifference which characterizes these legal folks,
had taken his seat at the end of the table, his pen behind his ear,
ready to record the questions and answers.
Joam Dacosta was introduced into the room, and at a sign from the
judge the guards who had brought him withdrew.
Judge Jarriquez looke at the accused for some time. The latter,
leaning slightly forward and maintaining a becoming attitude, neither
careless nor humble, waited with dignity for the questions to which
he was expected to reply.
“Your name?” said Judge Jarriquez.
“Joam Dacosta.”
“Your age?”
“Fifty-two.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Peru, at the village of Iquitos.”
“Under what name?”
“Under that of Garral, which is that of my mother.”
“And why do you bear that name?”
“Because for twenty-three years I wished to hide myself from the
pursuit of Brazilian justice.”
The answers were so exact, and seemed to show that Joam Dacosta had
made up his mind to confess everything concerning his past and
present life, that Judge Jarriquez, little accustomed to such a
course, cocked up his nose more than was usual to him.